


Ellipsis

by Pittsy



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pittsy/pseuds/Pittsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just as Tom and Sybil begin to grow closer, a twist of fate calls Tom back to Ireland. Torn apart by duty, kept apart by war, will fate conspire to bring them back together? A "what if" story of Tom Branson and Sybil Crawley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning! Totally and proudly AU! I have no intention on letting my beloved characters end up how Fellowes wants them to...
> 
> I originally wrote chapters 1 and 2 as a missing moment between seasons 1 and 2. I have decided to extend it past the two chapters I'd planned for- which means that, due to season 3 awfulness which I refuse to acknowledge actually happened, this is now AU and will be longer than originally intended. Chapter 1 has been on ff.net for a while, but I'm now in the process of updating.

**Ellipsis  
Chapter One**

Her eyelids flickered, her feet tangling in clammy sheets, and she pulled the heavy braid of her hair away from her neck in an attempt to get a reprieve from the sweltering humidity. The heat of the day had intensified into a heaviness that was simply impossible to sleep through. It didn’t really matter much to Sybil; it just made her sleeplessness more uncomfortable. She’d been staring at the same patch of the bed canopy above her head for what felt like days but could only have been a few hours, and despite the discomfort of the temperature, she had barely noticed her sweaty palms and damp bedclothes.

She only felt the grasp of strong fingers. Rough skin brushing against hers; surprising, gentle, and warm. She was almost positive that she was losing her mind. In fact, she would’ve known that was the case, if she could only forget the tingling sensation that had frozen her fingers the moment he had touched her.

Sybil wasn’t a silly girl. She wasn’t prone to inventing fantasies and dreaming of romances, despite what others may expect of her. Because she was enthusiastic, optimistic, and enjoyed getting embroiled in schemes and plots and adventures, people tended to think she was stupid and naive. She was cheerful and open by nature and she didn’t see what was wrong with that. Being cynical didn’t seem to make Mary happy, and Edith’s bitterness certainly didn’t endear her to anyone.

She just wasn’t the sort of girl to lay awake at night and wonder what a glance here and a softly spoken word there meant. At least, she hadn’t thought she was.

So he held her hand. He had been jubilant, they all had been. Gwen had embraced them both just moments before, throwing her arms around them in a daze of happiness, and she hadn’t fretted and tossed and turned about that. No doubt if Gwen had remained with them, he’d have grasped her hand with the same firm grip... but Gwen _had_ been there, hadn’t she? Sybil distinctly remembered that she had been beaming at her friend’s glowing face, thrilled that she had finally achieved her dream, when she had felt a hand brush hers, fingers tangling.

It wasn’t like she’d never held the hand of a man before. She’d been led into dinner, she’d been helped down from automobiles and lifted from the seat of her horse, and she’d been escorted to the ballroom floor. Her skin had come into contact with the soft hands of the most eligible and handsome bachelors in all of England. So why was it that she was obsessing over the firm grip and strong fingers of a servant?

_But he’s not just a servant, is he?_

She’d not held a hand like his before. Not skin to skin. She’d not felt calluses, and harshness. She’d not experienced the deliciousness of rough moving against smooth. The story of his life was written in the plains of his hands- hard working, strong, honest. And she couldn’t stop thinking about them.

\---

The gleaming bonnet of the car reflected his scowling face back at him as he polished. His frown deepened. He knew he should go to bed. His arms ached, his head pounded, and thoughts tumbled through his mind at an alarming rate, too fast for him to grasp any one and cling onto it.

Death and loss. Blood, honour, and duty. The war of other men. A pair of fine eyes sparkling enticingly. Words and images spiralled into the shining surface of the automobile and Tom found himself rubbing the polishing cloth furiously in an attempt to wipe away his confused thoughts.

He had been cleaning the car for going on two hours now and he was no closer to clearing his thoughts. He threw down his cloth and sighed. It was late and he had duties in the morning.

He stepped out into the night and closed his eyes, breathing deeply in what could almost be mistaken for the warm midnight breeze of Ireland. “Almost,” he whispered to himself, smiling slightly as he thought of home. On a night like this in his home town, it would be anything but silent. The pubs would still be open, and patrons would spill onto the street, laughing and singing their troubles away long into the night. He preferred the quiet and solitude that his place at Downton afforded him. The Yorkshire countryside was beautiful, and the lack of smog alone made it superior to any of the big cities, in his opinion anyway. It gave him space to think and to dream, to be his own man, despite the label of servant, a label that seemed less and less an obstacle as the days grew longer and the possibilities seemed endless.

He opened his eyes and they immediately travelled to the window of the big house that he somehow knew was hers. Before his thoughts could travel down corridors they had no business being down, he turned his back on the home of his master and walked briskly back to his cottage.

It wasn’t until he had locked the door behind him, pulled off the vest that was now covered in engine grease, and crawled on top of the cool sheets of his bed that he allowed himself to stop mentally reciting the parameters of a car engine (one of his favourite methods to avoid his mutinous thoughts).

He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply the heavy air, and awaited the thoughts that he knew would bombard him. It was only at night, in the safety of his own space with no one listening in, that he allowed his heart free reign. He wondered if she could sleep on a night like this. His mind conjured up an image of her of its own accord, clammy, twisting in her bed sheets, her legs tangled, and hair splayed across her pillow.

He groaned and planted his head face down into the bed. It was going to be a long night.

\---

It was late, very late and she stared at the canopy of her bed. The house was still, the only time in the day when Downton itself seemed to rest. The wind whistled through the open window, a gentle sigh rustling the curtains.

What, Sybil wondered, did “I don’t suppose...” mean? A trivial phrase by itself, nothing of note. It was the ellipsis that followed that haunted her.

He’d been her friend, her confidante, the one person she could have a real, equal conversation with. But, she realised, wasn’t it the same with Gwen or Anna? They were her friends too. But they weren’t Branson.

With him, she laughed more and she laughed louder than necessary. She relaxed and yet found herself more than usually self-conscious. She found herself fiddling with her hair, and leaning towards him eagerly from the backseat. She often found her cheeks tired from smiling when she was around him. She often found her eyes drawn towards him as if magnetised.

She allowed herself to imagine, just for a moment, that she wasn’t the daughter of an Earl. She was the daughter of a farmer. She was a maid. Maybe she wouldn’t be Sybil, maybe she would be Sarah. She would plait her own hair and mend her own clothes. She would work until her fingers were sore and spoke of her life, like his did. She would eat amongst family, her working family, where she would have no duty besides those of an employee. She could leave, she could go out into the world and do what she wanted for she would have no one to disappoint and nothing to lose.

And she would sit beside Branson, whose first name she would know and use freely, and eat with him and laugh with him. They would plot to change the world together, and if he should happen to turn to her, take her hand, look at her with those fiery blue eyes the colour of a bright spring day, and utter the words “I don’t suppose...” she would hear the end of that sentence, the answer hidden in the ellipsis, and maybe, despite work that left her bones weary, despite the rough, coarse clothing that she dressed in, despite her relative poverty, maybe then she would be free.

When she realised what happened next in her fantasy, her eyes popped open, the soft smile melted from her face and she sat up abruptly.

A lady wasn’t supposed to kiss a servant. Not even in her imagination.

Her feet hit the floor and she grabbed for her wardrobe. She pulled out the first frock that she put her hand to and yanked it over her head.

It might not have been sensible. It might have been the middle of the night and highly improper. But Sybil was not one for beating around the bush and leaving her thoughts and feelings unsaid.

She had to see him.

\---


	2. Chapter 2

**Ellipsis**

**Chapter Two**

Sprawled across his tangled sheets, oil-covered undervest long since yanked off, Tom didn’t hear the first taps at his door. He’d been lost in clammy dreams that even in his sleep he knew were forbidden.

His eyes flickered open, and he frowned groggily into the darkness, breathing in a lungful of the heavy night air; he wasn’t sure what had pulled him from the warm comfort of dreamy grey eyes and waterfalls of dark hair. He pushed himself onto his front, his face planted into his pillow, and sighed as he fell back into his dreams.

_Tap tap tap._

That was definitely coming from the front door. He sighed into his pillow. The dream that had been so delicious was starting to wilt at the edges of his memory, and all he recalled now was the slender trace of fruity perfume and a fading smile. He climbed out of his bed and his dreams, cursing whatever damn catastrophe had befallen their majesties at the big house this time. They’d probably run out of tea, he grumbled to himself, or perhaps they just couldn’t sleep while their shirts weren’t quite starched to perfection, or maybe they required him to nip to London to collect the crown jewels-

His uncharacteristic bitterness died a sudden death the second his eyes alighted on the figure stood at his door uncertainly.

He’d expected Daisy, or William, or perhaps even Mrs Hughes.

Instead, he found himself staring into the hesitant grey eyes that had just been swimming through his dreams. The youngest, most beautiful, and completely innocent daughter of his very powerful employer was standing on the doorstep of his small cottage, flushed in the heat and eyeing him with trepidation. The sight of her was a thousand times more welcome than the wisp that had danced across his dreams.

“Is something wrong?” He stepped forward, reaching a hand out to touch her elbow before he could stop himself. “Does Dr Clarkson need fetching?”

“No.” Her gaze dropped from his face to his chest and then to the hand that was touching her arm.

He dropped his hand as if he’d been burned and stepped back to an acceptable distance. “How can I help you, Milady?” he asked. He couldn’t think of any logical, proper, safe reason why she would be stood on his doorstep in the moonlight and looking at him as though he wasn’t just a servant. The dark corner of the estate where his cottage stood was only illuminated by the faint glow of the crescent moon, but he would’ve sworn that even in the darkness he could see her blushing.

“I just…” her husky voice was carried off by the wind as it suddenly picked up. A crack snapped through the air followed by the tell-tale low rumble of an oncoming storm. She jumped, instinctively stepping towards him, and he grasped her wrist, pulling her into the cottage and away from the thunder clouds, closing the door behind her.

She was stood close, too close for any sort of propriety, only inches separating their bodies in the darkness, his hand still wrapped around the soft skin her wrist. Tom held his breath, and felt the flicker of her pulse against his fingers quicken in time with the beating of his own heart.

A moment later the sky flashed white, lighting up his small, bare cottage and the woman standing in the doorway. The breath left his lungs. She was always lovely, it was just a fact of the universe; the sun rose in the east, the earth orbited the sun, and Lady Sybil Crawley was beautiful. But in that flash of lightning he saw something different. She was the picture of modesty and innocence, her head tilted downwards shyly, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

It was her eyes that gave her away.

They weren’t cast down and proper, as a young lady’s eyes should’ve been; through the shade of her long dark lashes, her grey eyes were fixed on his naked upper body with surprise and curiosity… and hunger. Something stirred in him, the very something that he’d been battling for weeks now. In the middle of the night, when there was no one but him and her, the fortifications that he had constructed around his heart stood no chance against the gaze of Lady Sybil Crawley.

This was the first time he’d seen her with her hair down, he realised dimly. He took in her haphazard appearance, unconsciously smoothing his callused thumb over the inside of her wrist, and memorised the sight she made. Her hair was unbound, wild with a soft curl to it; her cheeks a rosy, sleepy hue; and her dress thrown on in such a haphazard way that made it obvious that she’d had no help from a maid in getting dressed to see him. He started to smile at the adorable image she presented, all rumpled and confused, when his chest contracted at one small detail.

She’d been thinking about him, which had led to her decision to dress and pay him a visit. She’d been thinking about him. In bed. _Him._

It was only then that he stupidly realised that there was barely a foot between them, he was half naked, she was only barely properly attired… and she was staring at his chest like she’d never seen one before.

_She probably never has, idiot._

When she rocked forwards on her toes and her gaze slid up to rest on his lips, he knew he was in trouble.

He released her wrist and it hung abandoned at her side. “Excuse me for a moment, Milady,” he muttered, stepping back towards his bedroom to wisely throw on a shirt.

He returned a few minutes later to see her stood in the centre of his darkened cottage, hugging her arms to herself. He should’ve been panicking right now, worrying that this was the last in a long line of events that would definitely lead to him getting the sack. But, somehow, all he could think as he watched her in the moonlight was how glad he was to see her.

Tom stepped into the room and moved to light the lamp on the wooden mantelpiece, carefully ignoring how she swayed towards him.

“It’s cosy here, Branson.”

His task complete, he stepped back as the sepia glow illuminated the room. He cast an evaluating eye across his sparse furniture and untidily stacked books, studying the space as he’d never really done before. By no definition of the word could his living room be called cosy. It was small, slightly ramshackle, definitely threadbare, and housed only an empty fireplace, two uncomfortable wooden chairs, and a frustratingly rickety old table.

He had no complaints about his living arrangements. The roof didn’t leak, the fire didn’t smoke, and he hardly even noticed its sparseness anymore. Growing up with six brothers and sisters, it was a luxury for Tom to have any sort of privacy at all, let alone an entire cottage to himself. He had a place to sleep, he had a job that was steady and secure, and he earned enough money to send a substantial amount of it back home to his mother.

Lord Grantham had been more than generous to offer him such a place, and he was thankful for it. But that didn’t do anything to stop the sinking feeling in his stomach that told him she had never looked so out of place as she did in his world.

“What’s wrong, Milady?”

“Nothing.”

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow at her and pushed his hands into his pockets. He’d never seen her like this before, shyly circling the point. He was used to her being forthright, speaking her mind and demanding that everyone in her presence do the same. He hadn’t met this hesitant, unsure version of Lady Sybil and he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Anyway,” she continued, rocking backwards and forwards on her heels uncomfortably, “surely by now you know that you can call me Sybil?”

“You know I can’t, Milady.”

“Since when have you stuck to the rules?” She smiled and it transformed his little living room into a magical place.

He took a deep breath. “Since now, Milady.”

She frowned at him, a tempting little pout on her lips, but he steeled himself against her.

He could just about handle _Lady Sybil_. It wasn’t too difficult to remind himself that Lady Sybil wasn’t for the likes of him, not in this version of reality. She was an aristocrat, a lady of the household, and he was her employee. As long as she was _Lady Sybil_ , he wouldn’t forget his station.

In theory, anyway.

He just couldn’t seem to shake from his mind the image of her stood by his side, smiling at him and holding his hand, and, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he found it difficult to equate that blushing girl to the untouchable Lady Sybil.

To his fellow servants, she was the epitome of a lady. He heard them talk about her sometimes when he sat at the table in the servants hall, hiding behind his paper, ostensibly brushing up on his politics but mostly just listening in amusement to the sniping and bickering that went on around him. They liked Lady Sybil. She had a soft heart, he’d heard them say, she was kind and eager to help anyone. Of course they wouldn’t actually allow her to help, it was hardly appropriate, but she had earned their affection, the kind that one would bestow on an over-eager puppy.

Her parents thought of her as some sort of weak creature that needed to be protected at all costs, something that he couldn’t understand even if he tried. He’d heard them talk about her when he was no more to them than another part of the car, with no brain and no heart and no ears to listen with. She was still a baby, a child, she was young and naïve and foolish. She didn’t understand how the world worked, what her place in it was, and the sooner she learned the better.

Tom found it so strange that she was surrounded by people, people she lived with, ate with, talked with all day long, and yet not one of them really knew who she was.

She wasn’t stupid, or foolish, or naïve. She was bright and insightful. She had a remarkable gift for debating a point; something that he’d found himself on the wrong side of more than once. She saw the world more clearly than any of them, saw the lines that shouldn’t exist, and proudly stepped over them. She was the bravest person he knew. She wasn’t weak, and her heart wasn’t soft; it was made of fire and brimstone, pure steel and explosive materials. She was burning at the centre of his universe, forged entirely from courage and passion, determination and conviction. He tried not to notice, tried to hide his knowledge of her behind the shield of _Lady Sybil,_ but every day it grew harder to ignore.

He couldn’t allow himself to fall into the trap of calling her by her given name, no matter what. For Sybil was a goddess, a nymph from another world. Sybil was the name that he uttered in his sleep, she skipped across his dreams, tempting him, teasing him into action. Sybil was a woman, his equal, his missing part. Sybil was attainable and that was one dream that he couldn’t afford to allow himself to believe.

He’d played Mrs Hughes’ voice over in his head many times in the past twenty four hours.

She would break his heart, if he let her.

* * *

Sybil stared hard at the floor, her cheeks flushing, and desperately tried to think of something other than what he’d hidden all this time beneath the chauffeur’s jacket.

She was completely mortified by her behaviour. She had practically swooned over him, like a ridiculous heroine from one of Edith’s silly romance novels. She’d run down the dark corridors of Downton and out into the night like some sort of hellion, but in the seconds it had taken him to open the door to his cottage, her entire arsenal of courage had deserted her and she had stood there stupidly, frozen and petrified, staring at his half naked form.

She wondered if he was special, or if all men looked like that without the benefit of clothes. Good lord, she did hope that all men looked like that! Branson was broad and strong and… and… _glorious…_ The sight of him bared to the world had left her breathless, her mouth dry and heart pounding, as if she’d run a long distance in a thick heat.

Since the very moment he’d answered the door, she’d found it difficult to concentrate on what he’d been saying; she’d been plagued by the imagine of her own hands splayed across the wide expanse of his chest, palms stretching outwards into the golden hair dusting his skin, fingertips curiously sketching the path south, following the curls downwards into-

Her gaze snapped up. She shook her head, flustered, and extricated herself from her dangerous thoughts. This was Branson, for goodness sake! He was her friend, the one person who seemed to understand her, her lone comfort in the midst of people who were happy to ignore and misunderstand her. And here she was, doing as they did to her; looking at him like he was a piece of meat.

The problem was that it didn’t appear to be something that she could help. She just couldn’t stop staring. Even now, as he was covered in much more appropriate attire- a clean, white undershirt- she found her eyes dropping from his to the wide expanse of his chest.

“Branson…” she started hesitantly, wondering how on earth she was going to finish that sentence without embarrassing herself.

He shook his head, as if dislodging an annoying thought, and rubbed a hand across his already-mussed hair. “What do you want from me, Milady?” he said sharply.

She knew she should’ve flinched and put on the mask of cold aloofness she’d been taught to hone since childhood. But Sybil had never been good at those games, and, frankly, she was anything but offended by his harsh tone. Yes, none of the other servants spoke to her like that. Certainly none of the gentlemen she’d met during her season had addressed her with anything other than tightly wound decorum and indifferent politeness. She found his obvious frustration with her refreshing and… rather exhilarating. “I’m sorry, Branson, I-” she broke off, annoyed at how breathy her voice sounded.

He sighed and seated himself at the old table, his elbows resting on his knees. “You know you shouldn’t be here,” he said, his tone gentler now, his eyes fixed steadily on her. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” She hovered in front of the fireplace, studying him from beneath her eyelashes, and wondering what he’d do if she just said it, straight out. _I’m ever so sorry for waking you, Branson, but I’ve been obsessing over the way you held my hand earlier and- oh yes- I had a fantasy where you kissed me-_

He’d think she was a lunatic.

But then again, _he’d_ been the one to grab _her_ hand.

“I know what you mean,” he replied, and she froze. “I’ve been stewing over this war business all night.”

“Oh yes,” she said quickly, her face flooding with relief. “The war.”

In all honesty- and more than a little guilt- her thoughts hadn’t been as consumed with the war as they should’ve been in the hours since her father had announced the news. She knew that when summer was over and the reality of war darkened all their lives, she would think of little else, but right now all she needed to know was that it was bad, so very bad for all of them.

Sybil raised her eyes to study Branson’s sombre expression as he stared into the empty grate of his fireplace.

The young men of England, the best and the brightest, were to go to war. If anyone had asked her what her first thought had been at the news, she would’ve replied that naturally she worried for those who would be sent off to battle, and, of course, for Cousin Matthew. In reality, her first and foremost thought was bright blue eyes and the terrifying notion that she might never see them again.

“Will you go, do you think?” The words tumbled out before she’d even realised she’d thought them.

“I don’t know.” His eyes raised to hers and for once she couldn’t see what emotions lay behind his cloudy gaze. “It’s not my fight.”

Sybil took a seat opposite him at the table and folded her hands demurely in front of her. “But they can make you fight, can’t they?”

“They can try,” he ground out. “War is a nasty business and I don’t see why I should fight rich men’s battles for them. I’ve seen enough fighting as it is.”

“What fighting?”

“Back home.”

Sybil didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t know much about Ireland, except the little he’d told her and the picture he’d painted had been grim. “Oh.”

“I’d fight again, if I need to. For the right cause.”

She gazed at the set of his jaw and didn’t doubt him; a seed of fear threaded itself through her heart. Maybe she’d been worrying about the wrong war. “Fighting for independence is a good cause,” she said slowly.     

“It’s not noble and heroic and pretty, you know.” His eyes snapped back up to hers, willing her to understand him. “It’s bloody and lowering and I’m not proud of some of the things that I did. Truth be told, I’m not even sure it was Ireland I was fighting for.”

She shuffled her chair closer to his, their knees bumping under the table, and focused on his face and the memories that were reflected there. “What do you mean?”

“I was fighting for me, idiot that I was.” He rolled his eyes at his former self. “After my Da died, me and Michael- that’s my older brother- we’d go to rallies and cause trouble, get fall down drunk and end up in the middle of a brawl, stumbling home with a black eye, a bloody lip, sore ribs.”

She stared at him, her eyes round and fascinated. She’d never heard anyone speak of that sort of fighting before. It had never been an appropriate subject for a young lady, but she was glad that Branson had forgotten that now.

“I thought I was sticking it to the English.” She sent him an astounded look, and he laughed, a rich sound that echoed in the silence of the night. “You’re right, it sounds mad. It _was_ mad. What a fool I was!”

She found herself smiling at the sound of Branson’s laughter. This glimpse into his past somehow made him more real, no longer a shadow, an outline of a person. He hadn’t sprung into being the day he’d put on his chauffeur’s uniform. Now, in her mind, he was bloody and beaten, sweaty and alive, gulping back ale in a dark Irish pub, and throwing punches like a romantic hero. He’d caroused and fought and made mistakes and seen something of the world, more than she had anyway. He’d _lived._

“I’m sorry, Milady.” He suddenly sat up straight. “I shouldn’t be saying these things.”

“No, please!” Her hand reached out towards him, resting between them on the table. “Please continue.” Her lips curved mischievously. “I’d like to hear how you’ve gone from miscreant to the upstanding citizen you are now.”

He barked out a laugh again. “Not so upstanding, I’m afraid.”

“You might be right,” she conceded with a grin. “You are, after all, entertaining a lady alone in your house in the middle of the night.”

The second she’d said the words, she wanted to call them back. Silence hung in the air, as palpable as the dense heat of the summer’s night and Branson’s gaze dropped from hers, his hands clenched into fists against the table. With a single sentence she’d managed to make the atmosphere go from intimate and comfortable to awkward and stifling. They both knew that their friendship was inappropriate in every way; that the level of comfort and familiarity they had with each other was far surpassing that of servant/mistress; and that this midnight was tête-à-tête was most certainly bordering on scandalous.

Branson cleared his throat. “My mother,” he said.

“Your mother?” She raised her eyes to his hesitantly, unsure of how to act now that she’d spoiled everything. His soft gaze met hers, ripping a wide expanse in the tension that had permeated the room a minute ago.

“Let’s just say it wasn’t the first time I’d been in trouble.” He grinned a full-blown Branson grin, the one that pushed the breath from her lungs, and she suddenly saw the boy he must’ve been clearly in his face; forever dirty from climbing trees and playing ball, running wild through the streets of Dublin, getting into trouble with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. She felt an odd pang somewhere in her midsection and realised that she was quite jealous of him for having such a childhood, such freedom.

“She made me see sense,” he continued, “as mothers have a tendency to do.”

“Did she box your ears and threaten to withhold your supper?” Sybil teased.

“No,” he said, slowly. “She grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and dragged me down to Kilmainham. She made me sit there for hours while I thought on my sins.”

“Kil-?”

“The prison.” He quirked an amused brow at her. “There, have I shocked you at last?”

“Never,” she replied with a lift of her chin, making him laugh. “And your brother?”

His gaze turned dark again. “There’s no helping him. Even Mam knew it.”

“You don’t talk about your family much.”

“There’s not much to say.”

“Do you miss them?”

“Of course. But I’ve not been home for a long time now.” He shrugged. “Sometimes I can hardly believe that they’re real but for the letters they send me.”

“How long has it been?” she asked quietly, knowing that the answer would break her heart.

“Nearly five years.”

“Oh, Branson.” Without conscious thought her hand stretched over the small table and grasped his. 

“It’s not so bad, Milady.” He smiled at her, a warm, slow smile that caused heat to pool in her belly. “There are benefits to being here, you know.”

She knew should leave at once, before he could expand on the subject, but her feet seemed to be glued to the floor. “Benefits?”

“Well,” he said at length, turning her hand over in his and leaning over to study it. “Mrs Patmore does a wonderful bread and butter pudding.”

She cleared her throat. “She does.”

“And I don’t know what I’d do without the endless supply of O’Brien witticisms.”

To her utter mortification, Sybil snorted, but he only looked up from where he was bent over her hand and grinned.

“There’s the fresh air, of course.” He traced a pattern across the palm of her hand.

“Of course.” The words came our as a breath, catching in her throat.

“And the Rolls Royce is rather lovely,” he said in a low voice, his eyes steady on hers, a glimmer of something in his heated gaze that she couldn’t explain away rationally. She could feel their knees pressing together under the table, the warmth of his hand enveloping hers. “It’s one of a kind.” He raised a hand and trailed his fingertips down the side of her face, his eyes intently following their progress. Her eyelids fluttered shut at the sensation, the cadence of his voice washing over her. “Beautiful and powerful. In fact, I’m not sure I could give it up for anything.”

She held her breath as his fingertips trailed across the line of her jaw, his touch leaving a fiery wake, and she unconsciously tilted her head to give him better access. She felt his hand smooth around the expanse of her neck to rest at her nape and he leaned his forehead against hers. “Sybil,” he breathed, his voice rough, as if he’d woken from a deep sleep.

For one single moment, one glorious moment, the world paused. All the rules, the disapproval, the impropriety, the lines that were drawn and could never be crossed, dissolved into nothing.

Sybil revelled in the silence. She was lost in the touch of his hands on her skin, the sensation of his breath on her face.

It was simple, really.

This was the only place in the entire world that she wanted to be.

She found it hard to think rational thoughts being so entwined with him. She’d never been this close to a man in her entire life. He was her friend, and she hoped he always would be, but it was hard to deny anymore that he was much more than that. She didn’t sit so close to Larry Gray that their knees touched, or entwine her hands with those of Edward Thornly, or anticipate every breath and every word that was spoken by Philip Rainsborough.

She couldn’t imagine anyone who she’d danced with earlier that summer causing her heart to beat so incredibly fast that she was afraid it was going to jump out of her chest- and yet at the same time making her feel so comfortable. It was, she thought through a fog, because she knewBranson, really knew him, and he knew her. He was the only one to ever really see her, to see beyond her pretty face and her title. And, a dark little voice reminded her, she held his heart in the palm of her hand.

She felt him pull away, as if he’d heard her thoughts and balked at them. She opened her eyes hesitantly.

“I think you should go now.” He wasn’t looking at her and his hands were in his lap.

Sybil gulped and nodded, standing awkwardly and replacing the chair at the table with a scrape. He sat there, jaw clenched and avoiding her gaze, and she felt foolish, her hands hanging at her sides uselessly now that they weren’t occupied by his.

As she reached the door, Sybil paused. Every inch of her feminine pride told her to throw open the door, run all the way back to the house, and never look him in the eye again. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, and her heart lurched.

He sat there at the table, his shoulders slumped and his head bowed in defeat.

She ploughed the depths of her courage, turned, and stepped back towards him. “Branson,” she ventured bravely, “can I ask you something?”

He gave a short laugh. “I reckon you can ask me anything.”

“What’s your name? Your first name, I mean?”

He pushed to his feet, and shoved his hands in his pockets, his eyes steady on her. “That isn’t a good idea, Milady.”

“Why?” she challenged with a tilt of her chin. “Because of _propriety_?”

How she hated that word.

Propriety meant playing by the rules, propriety meant having your life arranged for you, propriety meant being told who you were and weren’t allowed to love. Well, Lady Sybil Crawley had had enough for one evening, thank you very much. Propriety could go _hang_.

“You know that we’re no longer lady and servant, Branson,” she said, gently, persuasively.  “In truth, we’ve not been for quite some time. And, frankly, it’s getting rather silly that you know so much about my life while I know nothing of yours.”

He sighed. “You’re making this really difficult, Milady.”

“That was my intention.”

“I’m just don’t think-”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Branson!” she snapped impatiently, resting her hands on her hips and demanding his obedience. “Don’t you think it’s ridiculous that I know that your brother is named Michael, but I have no idea what _your_ name is? All I want is your name, not your soul!”

The silence was just venturing into uncomfortable territory and Sybil was starting to question whether shouting at him like she was a fishwife was a wise move, when he nodded once to himself decisively, squared his shoulders, and took a step towards her.

“Tom.” He cleared his throat. “I’m Tom.”

Tom Branson.

A strong, solid, honest name. How well it suited him.

“Hello, Tom.” She beamed at him and held out her hand for him to shake. “I’m Sybil.”

She marvelled at the sight of his hand enveloping hers, his dark, work-roughened skin a clear contrast to the pale, unblemished skin of her own.

“Hello, Sybil.” The name rolled off his tongue like it never had when it had been precluded by ‘Lady’ and she found that she liked it very much.

“Tom.” She squeezed his hand. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may be too romance-novel-y but I can't bring myself to care- after the horror of season three, Tom and Sybil could do with a little romance. This fic was originally designed to just be a two-parter, this chapter finishing off the story. However, after aforementioned season three awfulness, after this chapter the story will divert from the timeline. The phrase "I reject your reality and substitute my own" has never been more accurate.
> 
> Please review! I would really appreciate your thoughts on this chapter and where you think the story might go!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter opens the world- and the story- up a bit and features other characters, but there's still some Sybil/Tom in there too. I hope you enjoy it!

**Ellipsis**

**Chapter 3**

_Two Weeks Earlier_

_64 Faithful Place, Dublin_

Michael Branson stood in the corner of the dark room and glowered over the heads of his siblings.

He couldn’t bear it.

A bead of sweat ran down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. The fire was blazing in the grate, an indulgence that they never usually allowed themselves. Luxury, apparently, was only appropriate when death was knocking on the door.

They were huddled over her rotting body, clutching at it, demanding that it return to life. His eyes slid from the bed towards the window and freedom. His legs twitched as he considered what they would all do if he just launched himself across the room and out of the second story window, arms thrust out wide and eyes closed to the rain, flying into the night like some sort of giant bearded bird.

Like an anchor, his eyes were drawn back towards the body.

He could hear her voice berating him, telling him to stop being so selfish and thinking of himself at a time like this. He didn’t listen to her, he had never listened to her, but somewhere deep inside him, where he thought that maybe his tiny tiny heart lay, something irreparable snapped at the realisation that he would never get the chance to brush off her arguments again.

He should be glad of the freedom. There would no one to drag him home, no one to tell him when he’d had enough, no one to tell him he’d made a fool of himself and needed to see sense. He was a grown man, after all, he was old enough to know what his limits were, he didn’t need to be scolded like he was ten years old.

His sisters were wailing.

It was an odd, piercing noise that reminded him dimly of the seals he’d seen when he worked on the fishing boats. Michael closed his eyes, smelling the sea air, and feeling the strong breeze across his face. The land was far away, and everything was forgotten as the ship rocked under his feet and the sound of gruff fisherman hollering into the wind resounded through his head. _Grip the rope, push the wheel, cast the net._

His mother was dead and she would never scold him again.

“I’m going out,” he said into the heavy atmosphere.

Sinead, predictably, gasped. “Michael, you can’t!”

“She won’t know the difference.”

“Are you heartless?” young Evelyn cried. “This is Mam!”

“Mam would understand that a man needs a drink sometimes.” He pushed himself off the wall and strode from the room, away from the furious whispers of his sisters, the already cold body of his mother, and the stinging behind his eyes.

He slammed the door as he left.

* * *

_Present Day_

_Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_

“Good morning, Papa.”

Robert Crawley, Lord Grantham raised his eyes over the top of the newspaper and studied his youngest daughter as she sat herself at the breakfast table.

She looked dreadful. Robert wasn’t an observant man, not by any stretch of the imagination, but even he could tell when a young lady looked a fright. Her hair was tidy and she was appropriately attired- thankfully, there were no ridiculous pantaloons in sight- but her face was drawn, her usually rosy cheeks pale, and the skin beneath her eyes dark, as if she’d barely slept a wink. What really drew his attention from _The Times,_ however,was the fact that she, most astoundingly, was _whistling._

His daughter didn’t _whistle_. No well brought up young lady _whistled._ She may sing, she may hum, or play, but she most certainly did not participate in the past time of the workers of England and _whistle._

“Sybil, what do you think you’re doing?” he asked sharply as he lowered his newspaper.

She paused in buttering her croissant. “Doing, Papa?”

He tried very hard not to huff impatiently, although he didn’t think he’d succeeded very well. The older he got, the more he found himself puffing up in indignation at the slightest provocation; sometimes he could imagine the young man he’d once been rolling his eyes at himself. “Has something cheerful happened?”

“Nothing in particular,” she replied, perkily, and his eyebrows raised.

“Indeed? You’ve not got one of the housemaids another position again, have you? Carson won’t be pleased, and, I warn you, this time you’ll have to answer to him yourself.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she gently admonished. “Can’t a girl just have a good morning every once in a while?”

“Certainly.” He narrowed his eyes. The odd little smile that was bordering on smug had yet to vanish from her face. Out of all of his daughters, Sybil was the one who was the most mischievous, the most cunning, and the most liable to get herself into trouble. He wondered what plot she was hatching. “It’s just not particularly expected the day after war is declared.”

Her face dropped. He was sorry for it. She was only young, she had no notion of what the war would mean, and, as much as she wouldn’t like it, he would do everything he could to keep her in ignorance. Better that than let the little girl who he’d once bounced on his knee live in the darkened world of bloody battles and dirty politics, the world that he and all men must inhabit now that the country was at war.

It was a bad business indeed but it was one that, despite all he’d witnessed and endured, he ached to be part of again. He’d never known comradeship like it. He’d been closer to his men than he’d ever been to anyone. In the name of Great Britain he had done things that he knew he would never be able to speak of, things that decades later still kept him tossing and turning throughout the night, things that his conscience questioned whether even patriotism could excuse. He would do it all again just to feel the sense of purpose he’d felt as a member of Her Majesty’s Army. He’d been an important part in a large, efficient machine fighting for a single objective.

If he was honest, he missed it.

He knew his duty to his family and to his name, but sometimes he couldn’t help longing for the time when he didn’t spend his days striding around his estate, drinking tea, and dressing for dinner. He ached for the long days on endless foreign terrains. Deserts that were so dusty you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. The constant anticipation of new orders and upcoming battles. The heady, sickening emotions that came with death and triumph, guilt and victory.

“Of course I am sorry for it,” she said, slowly, drawing him out of his thoughts. “Only, I know so little about it, it’s hard to think of it as real.”

“Don’t worry, my dear.” He raised his newspaper and focused on an article questioning whether Lord Kitchener would be made secretary for war, now that England had declared itself. Having met Kitchener several times during the Boer Wars, Robert was of the opinion that-

“Papa, will you explain it to me?”

Robert impatiently lowered his newspaper again and stared at the interrupter of his peaceful breakfast. “Explain?”

She’d put down her knife and fork and was looking at him expectantly; he sighed as he spotted the combative glint in her eyes that he knew was frequently reflected in his own. “Will you explain why we’re sending all our young men off to fight? What are we fighting _for_? Is it a just cause? No one will talk to me about it, Carson whisks off the newspapers before I can even glance at the front page, and all Mama will say is that we must do our best to stay strong.”

“Your mama is right, we need to-”

“Will you tell me, Papa?” she interrupted, her voice laced with frustration. “What does this war mean? What does it mean for us?”

It meant what it always had and always would; it meant death and loss and change. It meant social upheaval and infighting. It meant the destruction of the lives of millions of young men. It meant nearly every family in the country mourning the loss of someone.

But that was something he could never tell her. Sybil was young and headstrong and, as much as he would like to deny it, passionate, but she had to learn that there were questions that young ladies of standing had no right to ask, let alone demand an answer to.

There was a voice that whispered in the back of his head, a voice that he ignored as frequently as possible, that told him that maybe she could handle it. Sybil wasn’t as weak as society demanded she be. He’d seen the strength in her eyes over and over again, and he’d sighed over its difficult presence. Maybe Sybil, his youngest and brightest and bravest, would listen. Maybe she would be the one to whom he could tell his stories of the war, and maybe she would be the one to nod sombrely over his concerns about the future. Maybe she would want to listen to what he had to say, to the worries and thoughts that he’d never dared say out loud to anyone.

“Papa?”

He shook his paper sternly and raised it, shielding his eyes. “Nothing will be the same, my dear. There will be no parties or balls, not for a good long while.”

Robert missed the look adorning his daughter’s face, the look that would have told him how disappointed she was in him. She lowered her gaze to her teacup and he hid behind his newspaper.

* * *

Tom studied the article closely and tried not to humph out loud. He read everything he could get his hands on, whether it was a socialist manifesto or a pamphlet decrying workers’ unions; he’d always believed that in order to come to a fair conclusion on any issue, it was only logical to understand both sides of the argument.

But Lord Grantham’s conservative newspaper was taking the biscuit.

A particularly ridiculous article declared that the whole of the British Empire- that would be the one with its fingers around the throat of his beloved Ireland- needed to come together to support the war effort. It had him choking on his tea.

It was simply logical, the article posited, that the Irish contingent would want- nay, demand!- to be part of the fight for king and country. Never mind the fact that it wasn’t their king and it wasn’t their country embroiled in the political mud-slinging that had led to this, it was surely a foregone conclusion that England’s Irish brothers would willingly lend their support to the battles ahead. Conscription, they said, would be welcomed.

He wondered what universe these people lived in. They were only brothers, after all, when England wanted something.

He’d be beggared if Ireland ever turned over and sent its boys off to fight an English war without so much as a whimper. One thing was for certain; there was a fight coming and it wouldn’t just be across the channel.

“A letter for you, Branson.”

Tom raised an eyebrow above his paper and accepted the letter from Mr Carson. His name was hastily scrawled across the front of a sepia coloured envelope, and he smiled as he recognised Sinead’s handwriting. He’d not heard from her for a while, not since she’d written to tell him of her engagement to Jack Maguire, the owner of the local pub where she’d worked since she turned sixteen. Not only was Jack a good man and a good friend, he’d been half gone on Sinead since the moment he’d laid eyes on her, and Tom was happy for them.

He threw his paper onto the table, tucked the letter into his jacket, and stood from the table. He saluted William with a grin as he passed him on the way out of the kitchen.

If he had a spring in his step, no one mentioned it.

“Well, good morning, Branson,” a lovely voice sung on the breeze as he pulled on his chauffeur’s cap, and he turned to face the smiling- if slightly worn-looking- face of his next passenger.

“Lady Sybil.” He bowed his head sombrely, fighting the grin that tried its best to steal across his face.

Since she’d left his cottage earlier that morning, he’d found it difficult to stop smiling. While technically they’d done nothing but shake hands, much more had passed between them by held gazes and shared breaths and shy smiles. She looked at him and his soul unravelled before his eyes. He’d walked out with girls before, he’d kissed them and lain with them, but he’d never felt such intimacy as he had with her the night before, standing in his tumbledown cottage holding her hands in his.

He knew that it was ridiculous to let himself believe the fantasy they were weaving. He could only imagine the scolding he’d get off his mam if she knew what sort of thoughts he was seriously entertaining about a girl so far above him. Even with the rapidly dissolving social barriers, the gears of revolution churning, and the event of war, what they were doing was impossible, would always be impossible. The barriers would never completely disappear, would never make what was between them acceptable.

But there was one small fact that caused his pessimism to come to a screeching halt before it could get any traction.

She liked him.

Tom stopped fighting the grin that desperately wanted to plant itself on his face and smiled at her as she stepped towards the motorcar. “You’re looking lovely today, Lady Sybil, if I may be so bold.”

She was watching him from beneath her eyelashes, a faint blush on her cheeks. “Thank you.”

Any other lady would’ve taken the hand he offered, climbed up into the backseat, demurely folded her hands in her lap, and perhaps changed the topic of conversation to something less personal, like the weather, or the village’s upcoming flower show.

Sybil might have been born into a title, but, in truth, she was no lady. She accepted his offered hand, but instead of doing the ‘done’ thing, she took the opportunity to grip his fingers in hers and pull him closer to her.

He stumbled forward a step. “Milady-”

She raised a gloved finger to his lips and smirked. He paused, dumbstruck.

_She liked him._

There were only inches between them and he found himself holding his breath.

He knew men who didn’t like their women matching them in height, as it offended their sense of masculinity or some such nonsense, but Tom thought it was brilliant. He was only a little taller than Sybil, allowing him to stare directly into the fascinating depths of her smiling eyes, unhindered by the brim of her hat. There were just inches between them, her hand trapped between their bodies, and her head tilted up towards his, her lips curved enticingly, inviting him to just lean into that small space and-

“Good morning, Tom,” she said softly, her voice a husky ghost that hung between them.

He nearly swallowed his tongue at the warmth in her expressive eyes, a secret smile on her face that was just for him. “Good morning.”

Before he could say anything further, she squeezed his hand and stepped past him, up and into the backseat of the motorcar unassisted.

He stood there for a few moments, gawking as she settled herself into the back of the car with the air of a proper, if slightly impatient, young lady. “Really, Branson, are you going to stand there all day?” She raised an eyebrow and smirked.

His brain and limbs jolted back into action all at once. _My, she’s bold today,_ he chuckled to himself as he bowed his head in faux deference and jogged around to the driver’s side.

“I’m sorry I can’t repay the compliment,” she said as he swung up into the driver’s seat, brusquely continuing a conversation that could’ve started a hundred years ago for all he remembered it. She had a tendency of inflicting short-term memory loss on him with just the flash of a smile. “You do look rather awful today,” she continued innocently. “Didn’t you get much sleep?”

The mischievous glimmer in her eyes shot straight to his nether regions and he choked out a laugh. “Oh no, Milady. I was kept awake.”

“Oh?” she asked, a smile in her voice. “By nothing too awful, I trust?”

“It _was_ awful, Milady.” The car roared to life and he eased his foot down on the accelerator. “This terrifying creature burst in on me in the middle of a most delightful dream. It kept me up, chattering for hours, driving me barmy.” He shook his head sadly. “At one point, I contemplated doing myself a bad turn.”

She laughed loudly and clapped her hands together. “Oh, Tom!”

His heart soared to hear her utter his name with such joy and he decided then and there to stop worrying about their future and what trouble their friendship would cause.

She was worth every bruise the world could deal to his heart.

To the maid looking out of the upstairs window as she daydreamed and dusted the dresser, to the mother who smiled in satisfaction as her daughter went off to another dress fitting, to the gardener who paused in his tasks, rubbing a hand over his brow and watching as the car sped past down the drive, there was nothing amiss. To the world at large, they were still chauffeur and lady. No one but the two of them knew that they were now Tom and Sybil. And if they maintained eye contact for a little too long, and smiled a little too much, no one would notice, not in the privacy of the motorcar.

* * *

It was a lie.

Fresh air most decidedly did not help.

Edith had been walking for nearly an hour. Her head still pounded, her eyes still burned, and the heavy bitterness that had settled in the pit of her stomach had yet to dissolve.

She felt sore and bruised inside after the events of the day before. Her mouth twisted and she picked up her speed as she moved through the labyrinthine gardens that led back to the house.

She was _furious._

Not for the first time, she wished she was an only child. The only one on whom her parents would bestow their affection, the one who was important and cherished, the one at the centre of frame. Then, maybe, she wouldn’t be the one they forgot to even include in the picture.

It was hard, Edith thought to herself as she determinedly fought back tears, to always be the disappointing one. She tried so hard to be good, to be loveable and perfect, and somehow she had never succeeded.

The best chance she’d ever had was gone.

And Mary had won. Again.

_But you did start it this time,_ a traitorous little voice reminded her; she clenched her fists as she marched and tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore it. Even Edith found it hard to escape the fact that she had probably ruined her own sister’s life. A woman’s reputation was worth her entire existence and with one carefully worded letter she had very nearly stripped Mary of the only advantage they had as females. What Edith had done was terrible, unforgivable, she knew it, and she had quite successfully blocked out the sharp sting of guilt that hit her every time she saw her sister’s pale, pained face.

The lines had been drawn a long time ago and it was rather late to start second-guessing the actions of warfare.

She paused under the base of the oak tree they’d picnicked under as children, and raised a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun.

It was a beautiful day. No one would think there was a war brewing. It was so very odd that Downton looked the same as always, so strong and steadfast, and yet just over the seas in Europe, in cities that she’d holidayed in with her family, men were assembling for war.

Edith nodded to a passing gardener, and wondered if many of the servants would go to the front. Matthew would volunteer, she was sure, and her Papa would want to do his part. Her thoughts went to Sir Anthony and his shy, unassuming manner and she simply couldn’t imagine him standing in the middle of a battlefield commanding men.

It would be dangerous, no doubt, and she was worried for all of them. But, no matter how hard she forced herself to focus on the horrible things that could happen, or the prospect of never seeing him again, she didn’t feel that all-encompassing despair that she’d expected at the thought of Sir Anthony marching off to war.

She leaned her back against the rough bark of the tree and pressed a hand to her chest. She could feel its rhythmic thudding against the heel of her palm. Her heart didn’t feel broken.

It was rather telling, Edith suddenly realised, that she was more upset at the prospect of Mary winning the war they’d been waging- every bit as bloody and vicious and brutal as any played by men- than she was at the thought of being left behind by the man she loved.

Edith had never been above petty revenge, had even rejoiced in it and in her bitterness. It was only now, as she stood in the shade of an old oak tree they’d once played together beneath, that she allowed herself to ask the question of whether she should have been above some of the vengeful plots she’d concocted over the years. The consequences of their latest battle had been dire for both of them; the loss of Mary’s reputation, and the loss of the man Edith had hoped to marry.

Perhaps they were even.

Edith was lost in thought as rounded the corner which would take her past the garage and to the back door to the house. She was not prepared for the sight that greeted her.

Her feet were lead as she stared, unobserved, at the scene taking place in front of her.

Sybil was talking to the chauffeur.

It wasn’t unusual, of course, for her sister to talk to the staff. She was so gregarious that she couldn’t help but befriend every Tom, Dick, or Harry who crossed her path, regardless of any impropriety. Normally, Edith would’ve rolled her eyes at her sister fraternising with the servants, probably encouraging them to campaign for workers’ rights, or higher wages, or some such nonsense. But Sybil wasn’t talking, per se. She was laughing, her head tilted up towards his, and she was giving the chauffeur a look that Edith had never seen on her sister’s face before.

With a start, she realised what was happening. Sybil was _flirting._

Branson was a handsome man, there was no doubt about it, and he looked very fine in his uniform. Edith allowed that many maids would be delighted to be standing so close to him and having him grin down at them so affectionately, but Sybil wasn’t a maid or a seamstress or a shop girl. Sybil was the daughter of an earl, she was a lady. A lady most certainly didn’t stand too close to the staff, or act in a manner far too familiar to be proper.

If it had been Mary, she wouldn’t have been as shocked or as concerned. Mary had spent the best part of her first five years out in society batting her eyelashes at everything that moved, but Sybil had only ever smiled with restraint at the dandies falling over themselves to dance with her. She’d been distantly polite, and blatantly uninterested.

Sybil was _very_ interested now.

She should go straight into the house, march into the library, and tell her Papa. She should tell him that she’d seen Sybil acting inappropriately with the chauffeur, that she was worried they were engaging in a clandestine friendship, that after seeing the look on Sybil’s face she was worried for her sister’s heart.

Edith very deliberately pivoted on her heels and walked back out into the verdant landscape of her father’s estate.

She wondered if fresh air would help this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how did I do? Did I get Robert and Edith right? I'm not the biggest fan of Robert so I tried really hard not to just unashamedly bash him. What did you think of Michael? I know that Kieran is Tom's older brother in canon, but Michael had already formed in my head before I realised this and, as it's now an AU, I didn't think anyone would mind too much!
> 
> The plan is to write one chapter a week- so hopefully, all being well, the next one will be out next Sunday.


	4. Chapter 4

**Ellipsis**

**Chapter Four**

Sybil folded her hands in her lap, crossed her ankles, and placidly watched the scenery as the vehicle took off down the driveway of her home.

The ladylike pose lasted about five minutes.

As the car moved past the gates of Downton Abbey, she let out a breath and sent a mischievous grin in the direction of her conspirator. "Are you ready for an adventure today, Branson?"

He laughed, a warm, heady sound that made Sybil's stomach drop pleasantly. "Nothing too outrageous, I hope? I seem to remember the last adventure ending rather badly."

"Nothing like that," she replied seriously. "I promise."

During the whole fiasco at the Count she'd learned hard lessons about crossing lines and she wasn't about to repeat her past mistakes. It was not, however, the lines her father had set out in stone that she was concerned about; it was the line she had stepped over with Branson. She'd lied to him and he hadn't deserved it; he'd been nothing but kind and understanding when she'd caused him untold stress by placing his job in jeopardy. She knew his family in Ireland replied upon his wage to survive and the realisation that they could have all paid the price for her foolishness still pained her.

Afterwards, she had sought him out to ask for his forgiveness and he'd humbled her with how desperately apologetic  _he_ had been, when she'd been the one wholly in the wrong. She'd seen his heart in his eyes for the first time then, its goodness and honesty shining clearly.

That had also been the first time she'd wondered what it would be like to stop his lips with a kiss.

"And what would this particular adventure involve?" Tom grinned over his shoulder.

She shook her head, dislodging the images and imaginings that had started to take root.

"Breaking down the doors of parliament?" he continued. "Chaining yourself to the gates of a cathedral?"

"Not quite." She cleared her throat and leaned forward in her seat. "Would you know how to obtain a newspaper, Branson?"

He spluttered out a laugh. "A newspaper? That's your adventure?"

"It is an adventure for a girl who's never been allowed to read one!" she responded indignantly.

"Why ever not?"

"Papa insists I don't need to. Apparently, it's not seemly for a lady to know about the world."

Her father had made it clear as much that morning. She'd seen something in his eyes, a shred of doubt in his usually firm line, that had made her hope that for once he would relent and allow her to be herself, rather than a shadow of a person. She knew that her father loved her, but it mystified her how he could have raised her and not seen how she had grown from a tomboy to a proper young lady to a woman who was a strange combination of the two.

She couldn't blame him completely for not seeing the change in her; after all, she'd not always been as interested nor as opinionated. Like all young ladies of her position, she'd spent her time learning how to ride, shoot, draw, dance, and at one time she hadn't minded being a mere face and form to be admired. She remembered times as a girl when it would be the height of excitement to be dressed up in a pretty frock and paraded around the living room before dinner party guests. All she had wanted in life was to be old enough to be out in society and attend parties and plays and balls with her sisters.

Sybil didn't know what had changed. She'd grown up, she supposed. Slowly, by degrees, she had found herself asking questions that at one time would never have even occurred to her. She'd started to argue the point with people who hadn't realised that she had an active, working brain, and she'd started having opinions, ones that she simply couldn't dismiss, no matter how loud her father yelled.

"I reckon we can dig you up a newspaper somewhere, Milady," Branson said as he manoeuvred the car through the village.

"Thank you, Tom."

Branson's arrival had been like cold water to a person trapped in the middle of a lonely desert, she thought as she studied the back of his head with a smile. He'd not been the originator of her thoughts and opinions, but he'd been someone to talk to, someone to share her ideas with, someone that she'd desperately needed.

"I wonder what's going on here?" she heard him mutter from the front seat, as he was forced to halt the car in the middle of the road.

She craned her neck to see what was going on and spotted Mr Crocker, the local postmaster, at the top of a wobbly pair of ladders in the centre of the road, pulling down the large banner that had been erected only the week before. "Oh no!" she cried as she realised what it meant. "They've cancelled the village fair!"

The fair was one of the only places where the barriers between classes were rather more opaque than usual and the crowds that gathered meant that it was relatively easy for her to sneak off undetected. Usually, Sybil used this bit of freedom to play with the village children, or have a go on the amusements she'd been sternly forbidden from, such as the show of strength and the egg and spoon race. This year she'd entertained mild fantasies about meeting up with Gwen and Branson. She would have linked arms with Gwen as they'd explored, and Branson would have bought them candy floss. They would've giggled over the Punch and Judy Show, and Sybil would have taken great delight at beating Branson at horse shoes, winning him a coconut for his troubles. She'd have finally got to spend time with her friends, without glancing over her shoulder and waiting for her Papa's flabbergasted voice to cut through her enjoyment.

"I was so looking forward to it," she said as her imaginings faded to nothing.

"I suppose it's because of the war," he commented as the road cleared and he was able to continue on through the village. "Some folks think it's in bad taste to enjoy yourself at such a time."

"Do you think so?"

"Not really. What's the point in draining the joy out of life now when there's going to be so little of it in the future?"

Sybil peered out of the window at the crowds gathered in the village square. The young men were stood in groups of two or three, slapping each other on the back, and laughing as if the best news on earth had just been delivered. "Why are they so excited?"

"Because they know nothing about war."

The women were clustered in groups of their own, but Sybil couldn't help noticing that they weren't talking excitedly like the men were. Their faces were drawn and they were clutching at each other's hands, knuckles white and broken. "But the women- they look so…so…"

"Scared?"

She spotted a tear-streaked face in the crowd that she recognised. The young woman was around her own age and she'd always struck Sybil as a cheerful, friendly sort; despite their disparate stations, the young woman had always struck up an amicable conversation with her and not shown the deference that she had always found so uncomfortable. "Molly from the bakery was crying."

Tom sighed from the front seat. "She's meant to be getting married to the blacksmith's lad."

"Oh. Poor Molly." Sybil's heart went out to the girl, even though she couldn't imagine the sort of devastation and worry she must be going through.

The sight of a familiar face so altered with the prospect of the battles ahead brought home a realisation that had begun to germinate the instant her father had said those fateful words. "Nothing's going to be the same, is it?" she asked quietly as the car moved out of the village and onto the road leading to town.

"I expect not."

Things were already changing. Sybil had noticed an odd atmosphere pervading the house, a sort of camaraderie that she'd not experienced before. Her sisters hadn't squabbled once since the announcement had been made, and Cousin Isobel hadn't baited Granny into saying something untoward at dinner the night before. The maids had smiled at her bravely, and the footmen had met her eyes as she passed them in the hall. Everyone had been in a world of their own, each person contemplating what the imminence of the war meant for them personally. It had meant that no one had remembered how out of character it was for Sybil to volunteer to go into town clothes shopping- or that the last time she had been granted free reign, she had come back sporting a pair of much maligned pantaloons.

"My mother wants me to get a new wardrobe for the winter," she confided to the back. "That's my excuse for going to Ripon. She says we'll see soldiers in the house soon as they visit Papa to discuss the war effort and that I'll need to look my best."

"Undoubtedly." Tom smirked over his shoulder at her and she pulled a face.

"Do you realise that we get changed four times a day? Four times! I get dressed for breakfast, then again if I decide to go riding or for a walk, then for luncheon and afternoon tea, and then dressed again for dinner."

"That's a lot of frocks. It's a wonder poor Anna ever gets anything else done."

"Oh, Tom, it's so ridiculous! You don't know how many times I've petitioned Mama to stop the whole thing off. Just this morning she told me that now more than ever we need to maintain tradition. Tradition!" Sybil came as close to sneering as she ever could. "They just can't see that there's no point to it anymore."

"Was there ever a point to it?" he offered in amusement.

She huffed to herself and tried not to stew on the one-sided discussions she'd had with both her parents that morning. Papa had skilfully avoided every question she'd put to him, and Mama had tried to convince her that she should be practical and look at the war as a wonderful opportunity to meet a husband.  _A husband!_  She was barely eighteen, the country was at war, and her mother was more concerned about marrying her off to the first suitable man to put his head above the parapet. They would be entertaining officers sooner or later, men of good family and fortune, and- her mother had assured her with a giggle- she would find that the opposite sex had a tendency to look dashing in uniform.

As if she was concerned about making a good match when war was on the cards.

Besides, she wasn't ready for marriage, and couldn't imagine a time when she would be. She couldn't bear the thought of being forever tied to one person who would be lawfully able to instruct her on her thoughts and opinions, not when she was only just discovering her own mind. She'd seen the types of men who'd been paraded in front of Mary and Edith, and she dreaded the time when she would be expected to stand alongside her sisters, to smile and make herself charming. Smug, arrogant, and so very sure of their own appeal to women, she couldn't bear the thought of talking to any of them, let alone marrying one.

She'd heard Edith giggle about men who were handsome and rich, as if  _those_ were the two most essential qualities that one should look for in a husband. What about, she'd demanded, honesty and kindness? What about someone who listens to and appreciates you, treats you as an equal? What about a love that lasts an age, a partnership that can never be broken?

In all honesty, she sometimes wondered if  _she_ wasn't the romantic sister.

Her eyes travelled over the interior of the car to rest on the back of Tom's head, his smooth brown hair tamed to fit beneath his cap.

"Tom," she said slowly, tilting her head so that she could see a slice of the side of his face, the crinkle of an eye and the interesting quirk of his lips. "What do you know of the war?"

He paused for a moment and she held her breath.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything," she breathed out the word in relief. She knew that he was different; he'd always treated her as an equal, even when the world insisted that he was beneath her. But, nevertheless, a part of her had worried that he would respond as her father had, that he would brush her off with nonsense about how she needn't worry herself, that it was no concern for a lady, that it was best not to think on it.

"I can't guarantee that I know all that much."

"Tell me what you do know then. Why are we going to war?"

"That's a difficult question to answer. I'm not completely clear on it myself." He scratched his head thoughtfully, one hand casually resting on the steering wheel. "Europe is made up of alliances, which is where the problems lay, really. They've foolishly set themselves up for war, like a stack of playing cards. One falls, so do all the rest."

"What do you mean?" She knew about the children of Queen Victoria, spread across the continent like one giant ruling family, each head of a different state, but she had always been taught that their family ties bound them together in peace. "How does having allies lead to war? Surely, it would make them all more secure."

"That's what they thought too," he replied as he focused on turning the car carefully around a sharp bend. "Did you hear about the assassination?"

"The Archduke?" She did know of that one meagre piece of news. She couldn't feel too proud of being knowledgeable though, not even in a small way, as she'd only learned of it by covertly listening in on a conversation between her father and Matthew. Her intention had been to borrow a book but, upon approaching the library, she had heard their voices carrying through the door and when she had heard her father say something along the lines of ' _it's tantamount to a declaration of war!'_ , she'd stopped in her tracks. The dramatic pronouncement was too tempting a bread crumb to ignore. Instead of retreating and forgetting what she'd heard, she had had no compunction against pressing her ear to the door and soaking up every nugget of information she could.

"He was killed by a Serb. Austria felt the need to declare war on Serbia in retaliation and all the other countries have followed. Germany is supporting Serbia, while Britain, France and Russia are supporting Austria. A man was murdered by a stupid young lad, and the world goes to war. It's madness."

"I don't understand." Sybil's brain reeled with all the new information she'd received after being starved of it for so long. "Why do all these people want to kill each other for the sake of one man? How was he special?"

"He wasn't special. He was just the straw that broke the camel's back." He sighed. "The first thing to understand about war is that leaders are always ready to draw arms, whether it's for more territory or for their pride or their stupid sense of honour. It's the common folk who suffer for it."

"It can't be that simple."

"No," he said slowly. "You're right. It's very complicated, and I don't understand a lot of it myself. But I do know that in the end it'll have been about men's inability to swallow their pride, as most wars are. Whether it's in a public house or a battlefield, trust me, that's what it comes down to."

Ever since she'd heard the news, she'd been imagining a noble war. Great Britain, fighting for justice and peace and freedom, defending its Empire, protecting its people. Instead, it appeared that they were fighting… for the sake of fighting. "What a stupid reason to go to war."

He laughed. "Spoken like a woman! I've always wondered if women were in charge whether there would be any wars at all. They'd hash out any arguments over a sensible cup of tea and all would be well by dinner time."

"Obviously you've never taken tea with Granny and Cousin Isobel," she replied drily, making him laugh again. "I think you have a rather glowing view of women, Branson. It might get you into trouble."

He smirked over his shoulder, his chauffeur's cap succeeding in making him look like a mischievous little boy. "What makes you think it hasn't already?"

"Well, you've not been sacked yet, have you?" she replied playfully, and wondered if this was what flirting was like.

"Thankfully not." He turned back to the road, both hands on the steering wheel, as they approached the village of North Stainley. "And I'd rather think the best of women, than the worst. I'm not a woman myself-"

"Are you not?" She laughed. "I hadn't noticed!"

"- so I have to judge on what I see. And most of the women I know are ten times more sensible than men. My mam ruled our house with an iron fist long before my Da died. He was scared of her, I think." He chuckled. "She's the strongest person I know, male or female. She raised, is still raising, seven children, with a husband long dead, working three jobs in the middle of a city in turmoil. I'd like to see Lord Kitchener do that."

She heard the admiration in his voice for his mother and another little piece of her heart was branded with his name, even if she didn't realise it at the time.

"I don't care what they say about the feminine constitution, that's utter nonsense," he continued. "I don't see how women can endure childbirth and raise children, and yet aren't capable of skilled labour, or driving motorcars, or voting for who should govern their own country."

The passion in his voice made her heart beat faster and her smile ache just a little bit more, as she thought to herself how proud she was to know him. She didn't know any other man who thought such things, let alone had the courage to say and mean them. "Or going to war?"

"No," he said sharply. "Not war."

Her face fell at his tone. "Why not?" she asked, the warmth in her chest suddenly flaring into outrage and disappointment at the thought that even  _Branson_  was limiting what a woman was capable of. "If women can work in factories and on farms, why shouldn't there be female soldiers?"

"They're hardly going to strap you up and send you off to war, Sybil," he answered softly.

She didn't give herself chance to consider how nice it was to hear him say her name as she sat on the edge of her seat and railed at him as he calmly drove on through the village. "Why is it acceptable for them to throw you to the wolves, but I'm only good for looking pretty at dinner parties and arranging flowers? I have arms and legs and a brain. I'm strong, I'm healthy, I can shoot, I can run, I can fight. Why does being a woman make me so delicate?"

"Sybil, it's not about delicacy or capability. I know you're clever and strong, how could I not?"

"Well, what is it then?" she demanded.

"Could you kill someone?" Tom asked quietly, the only other sound the buzzing of the engine as it vibrated beneath them. "Because I don't think I could. I'm all for the vote and women's rights, you know I am. But I can't help being thankful that equality hasn't stretched quite that far yet."

She opened for mouth to vehemently demand equality in every way when he interrupted her.

"No one should have to fight. If half the population get away with their hands clean, it's a good thing in my book."

Sybil turned her head away from him to stare out of the window and her brow furrowed as she thought about what he'd said. Equality had to be complete and utter, no half measures, or it was a false victory. If that meant sacrifice, so be it.

She imagined herself, stood to attention in a smart new uniform, hair tucked up securely into a helmet, gripping a gun, and staring grimly into enemy lines. Could she find it in herself to march forwards, weapon outstretched and at the ready? Could she exert that small bit of pressure on the trigger of the gun and aim it at a young German, dressed up in a uniform just like hers? Could she bring the bayonet crashing down on an innocent face, watch as the light faded from their eyes?

It terrified her that the answer to those questions was  _yes._

She could do it, she knew she could, she had the steel inside herself to do what was necessary- if the cause was just. She wouldn't ever be able to look at her own reflection in the mirror again, but she could do it. To protect those she loved, to protect the suffering and the persecuted, she would do anything, even if it sent her soul to hell.

But to do those terrible things- to irrevocably dirty her hands- in a war that was being fought for no good reason was simply madness.

"No one should fight," she echoed him softly, watching his strong hands as they gripped the steering wheel and turned.

The car pulled up onto the kerb and the engine stopped buzzing beneath her feet. "Branson, what are we-"

"I'll be back in a moment." He ducked out of the car and she was left to ponder what he was up to as she watched him walk a way down the road and turn into an unmarked building. Minutes later, he re-emerged, a parcel of some kind tucked under his arm, and a grin on his face.

"There you go, Milady," he said nonchalantly, as he jumped into the car and tossed the bundle at her.

"Branson, what-" She unfurled the newspaper and beamed at the front page. "Oh, Tom! Thank you!"

"Be careful," he warned as he started the car. "It's not been ironed. You don't want to get ink all over your gloves."

"Oh, as if a little thing like ink could stop me!" She triumphantly pulled off her gloves one at a time and threw them across the divide onto the front seat. "There, Branson, you can keep them safe!"

He chuckled and shook his head as he guided the motorcar back onto the road.

Sybil was silent for several minutes, the quietest she'd ever been on a car journey with Tom as her chauffeur. She poured over the front page, fascinatedly reading the articles that rejoiced in war and theorised a short and triumphant end to the conflict. It would be over by Christmas, they were sure. In the same breath, the newspaper cried out for the campaigners for women's rights to cease their war on government and society, to 'do their bit' for the country and for the war effort.

She sighed and folded the paper thoughtfully. "The world's changing and not for the better."

"I wouldn't say that. It won't be long before women get the vote. And class equality is happening already, why I've read that in Glasgow-"

"How do you do that?" she interrupted him.

"What?"

"See something other than the darkness in the world right now."

He shrugged. "There's always good if you look for it."

"Yes," she said with a smile, watching the lines of his profile as he turned to look down the road and moved the car into the traffic leading into Ripon. "Yes, there is."

* * *

Tom drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and huffed out a breath.

Experience had taught him that she'd probably be at least another half an hour yet, but he still found himself counting away the minutes. He'd never been good at waiting, a personality trait that made his position as chauffeur rather unbearable sometimes.

It was worse, though, when he was waiting for her. Since the first journey they'd taken together, he'd found himself always eager for her company, for her bright smile and curious eyes, and for the way she would tell him the latest gossip and plough him with question after question.

Today had been different, though. She hadn't asked him what the servants thought about her family drama, or what his opinion was on the expansion of the village hospital. She'd asked him questions that meant something, and he'd been honoured to be the one to give her the answers. He wasn't an expert, by any means, but he knew a damn sight more than she did, something which he found completely ridiculous.

She was curious and intelligent and enthusiastic, she could do anything she put her mind to, she had the world at her feet. The fact that Lord Grantham was insistent upon keeping her in the dark and limiting her to looking pretty and making a good match made him want to throttle the man, Earl or not.

Tom leaned back in his seat, pulled his cap low over his eyes, and tried to relax. As he crossed his arms over his chest in an attempt to get more comfortable, something crinkled in his breast pocket, and he remembered the letter he'd received that morning from his sister.

He retrieved the envelope, pulled out the thin piece of paper carefully, and smiled at the sight of his sister's writing. Sinead had never been one for writing, a fact that one could see quite clearly from the state of her untidy scrawl.

He remembered with affection a time when Mam had bribed him with the promise of letting him go out with Michael and his friends in exchange for making sure that Sinead was up to snuff with her reading and writing; a task that was eagerly agreed to and quickly regretted. Sinead was bright, but more prone to chattering away than putting her thoughts on paper clearly. He'd had no choice but to spend every night for months tutoring the little sister who was more interested in telling him how Maggie Malone who lived on the corner fancied Joseph Larkin from Mabbot Street than she was working on her literacy. He didn't think he'd ever told someone to shut up so frequently as he had during that time.

Careless, he sighed to himself with a smile, she'd always been haphazard and careless in her writing. She'd not improved, not even nearly ten years later, as her letter was full of blurry words and smeared ink, as if she'd written it in a hurry. The smile froze on his face as one word jumped out at him from the scrawled mess.

_Dead._

He stretched the letter out in his hands and hunched over it; his face inches from the paper, his heart in his throat as his eyes skipped over the text, searching for the dreaded news.

Hastily scrawled letters scrambled across the paper until certain words stood out in deep definition.

_The worst has happened… I wish I could tell you it was peaceful… the children won't stop crying… you should say goodbye to her…_

_Please come home._

He read the words three times, before they sank in.

_Our mother is dead._

_Our mother is dead._

_Our mother is dead._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the only real knowledge I had of WW1 was from War Horse (Horseys! Tom Hiddleston looking dashing! Death! Gas!), I did a lot of research this past week and learned a lot. As today is Remembrance Sunday, my better understanding has really brought home what it's all about and hopefully I managed to reflect it in this chapter a little.
> 
> I'm going away next Sunday for a few days (TO DISNEYLAND PARIS! HURRAY!) so the next chapter will either be early or late, depending on how proactive I can be this week.
> 
> Thanks for reading, please review or leave kudos if you enjoyed it!


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